


An Arrangement

by drpeppapigphd



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Awkward Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Experienced Partner, F/M, Falling In Love, Fantasy Smut, First Orgasm, First Time, Forced Marriage, Game of Thrones - Freeform, GoT, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Loss of Virginity, Marriage, Married Couple, Oral Sex, Penetration, Protective, Reader request, Reader requested, Sandor - Freeform, Sex, Simultaneous Orgasm, Smut, Wedding Night, Wedding Night Smut, Weddings, bride, explicit - Freeform, gentle Sandor, groom, inexperienced partner, protective sandor, request, the hound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpeppapigphd/pseuds/drpeppapigphd
Summary: Rowan Gregory is forced into an arranged marriage with Sandor Clegane by Joffrey (who thinks it’s a punishment for her); it turns out to be an excellent fit.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 77





	1. A Punishment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yolandi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yolandi/gifts).



> Requested by a reader! You can make your own requests— just send them to the info on my profile. Happy reading, lovelies. xx

Rowan Gregory had worked in the launderer’s hall of the Red Keep since she was old enough to stand on her own. Deep down in a dark cellar, about a dozen women soaked and scrubbed away at countless sheets, clothes, curtains, and more. She used to scrub until her fingers bled, and then she would have to swap to pounding the linens with stones. Her mother died when she had barely turned six, so the ladies of the cellar raised her—roughly, but with good intention—and kept her fed. 

Once Rowan reached eighteen years of age, the queen mother, Cersei Lannister, decided she was beautiful enough to appease her impish and destructive son, Joffrey, as a maidservant. He was evil to the core, and had no qualms about showing it. Rowan had no choice but to obey, and quickly became an indispensable upstairs employee. Now, after seven years of service, Rowan has angered Joffrey for the last time—and must face her punishment. 

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

“You wretched bitch!” Joffrey was foaming at the mouth, which was not all that uncommon for him, as he shrieked at Rowan for the eighth time that morning. “When I say that I want hot water, I mean hot. Not boiling!” Her eyes were trained on the floor, head bowed, avoiding the King’s flushed face, now just inches from hers. 

“Your grace, I had intended to let it cool some while you ate your b-breakfast... I did not anticipate that you would attempt to pour it yourself... y-your highness.” She could sense him seething as she stammered, instantly regretting any sort of implied blame in her response.

“You’ve tried my patience, fool,” he hissed through clenched teeth, the fringe of his blonde hair shaking as he radiated a violent anger. Rowan’s olive eyes flickered up just in time to see him draw his hand back to strike her, and then clenched shut to brace for the blow. But it never came. 

“She did not mean for you to burn yourself, your grace,” rumbled a dark, raspy voice. 

She cautiously opened her eyes to find Sandor Clegane with his massive hand wrapped firmly around Joffrey’s wrist, which he had stopped mid-air. He usually stood in the corner, just like a brooding statue, while she did her work. 

“My sincerest apologies, your highness,” Rowan said with quiet urgency. “I will go retrieve some balm and bandages for your hand from the Maester.” But she didn’t say it to Joffrey. No, she said with her eyes trained on Sandor’s—deep brown under his hooded brow, surprisingly kind and warm as compared to the scowl of his lips.

Before Joffrey could protest, she shuffled out of the room and went to retrieve the supplies. She returned, bandaged his hand up, and served breakfast. The incident seemed to be forgotten, until she turned to leave the room.

“Maid, what is your name?” Joffrey questioned, the lilt of trickery and scheming evident... Rowan swallowed hard as she felt fear rising to her throat once more. In all the seven years that she had worked for Joffrey, he had never once asked for her name. 

“Rowan—that is, Rowan Gregory, your grace...”

“Rowan... Isn’t that a man’s name?” 

“It was my father’s name, your highness. He died before I was born so my mother named me after him.”

“And your mother? Where is she?” 

“Also dead, your grace.”

At that, a wicked smile appeared on his face, and one eyebrow cocked. 

“So that would mean that you have no one to arrange a marriage for you, then...” 

Rowan could feel her heart beating in her ears, and a sheen of sweat started to form on her forehead. The implications of his musings alone were unsettling, and the unpredictability of Joffrey’s vile mind were unmatched. For all she knew, he could be contemplating whether or not he wanted to marry her off to an old man, or a prisoner, or worse—someone like himself. 

“Luckily for you, your King is generous.” Fork and knife in hand, he swiveled toward Sandor, who had returned to his usual post. “Come here, dog.” 

Sandor approached slowly, but dutifully, his serious face like stone. 

“You will wed sweet Rowan,” he mocked, “tomorrow. In the great hall.” Before Sandor could protest, Joffrey lifted a hand. “That’s an order, mutt. Do you dare disobey your king?” 

Sandor’s gaze met Rowan’s once more, and she felt a flutter in her stomach. She couldn’t tell if it was shock or relief, but it was something. Even though she didn’t know much about the man they called “The Hound,” she knew that he had showed her an act of kindness only hours earlier. While she had heard that he’d been to some brothels in King’s Landing in years past, she had never seen him harm any of her fellow servants... he seemed like an honest man who had been hardened by years of fighting and insults. 

“No, your majesty,” Sandor replied quietly, bowing his head. 

“If that is all, your grace...” Rowan choked out, doing her best not to say anything else she would regret. 

“That is all, you worthless wench,” Joffrey chortled, delighted at his own masterful plan to punish her and his guard. “Enjoy your last night in bed alone.”


	2. A Ceremony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ceremony...

Around mid-afternoon the next day, Rowan sat in Cersei’s chambers as her fellow maids prepared her for the wedding. Joffrey had demanded that the wedding be full of the typical pomp and circumstance, and that Rowan be prepared by his mother to “serve” her husband. When Cersei had come to fetch her from her living quarters, Rowan had to fight back tears at the thought of such an intimate conversation with her... she was almost as terrifying as her despicable son. Almost. 

As her friend Shae wove her hair into an intricate braided up-do, Rowan faced the queen who was nursing her third goblet of wine since lunch. Her lengthy golden hair was so beautiful, but it reminded Rowan too much of Joffrey to think about it too long. 

“Tell me, girl, what do you know about laying with a man?” Cersei looked lazily over the brim of her cup, enjoying the discomfort that the conversation caused Rowan, who squirmed slightly. 

“I know that it will probably hurt the first time, your ladyship...”

“It will,” she paused. If Rowan didn’t know better, she would have believed that there was a hint of sympathy in the queen’s tone. “But it will get better. The most important thing to know is that your husband will be in charge and his pleasure is the only concern.” 

Rowan’s gaze shifted to the beams of evening sunlight pouring in through the window and dancing across the old tile floors. It was almost time. 

“Whatever you do,” continued Cersei, “don’t refuse. Let him have his way. You belong to him now. And knowing The Hound, he’ll take exactly what he wants.” 

Shae finally spoke up, quelling the rising sense of panic in Rowan’s chest. “You are ready... and lovely.” Taking Rowan’s hands in hers and guiding her to to Cersei’s full-length looking glass, Shae presented her with the final results of her tedious work. 

“Shae...” Rowan breathed, taking in her stunning reflection. She had never thought of herself as beautiful. In fact, no one had ever called her beautiful in sincerity except for the ladies of the cellar and Cersei upon her hiring. But looking in the mirror, in that moment, she felt it. Her dark hair was piled just so on top of her head, adorned with the crown of flowers that is customary for members of the court in King’s Landing. Gunmetal chains adorned her neck, from choker sized rows to long chains all the way down to her waist, and both wrists. The dress was made of heavy satin dyed to a rich, burnt orange color, which complimented her green eyes. 

_On the bright side, I never would have looked like this on my wedding day had this not happened,_ Rowan thought to herself. There would have been no luxury or jewels. But she was okay with that, as long as she loved her husband. Since she was marrying a man who was essentially a stranger to her, it helped to feel beautiful... maybe he would think so, too. She realized that she wanted so badly to impress Sandor. If they were share their lives—and a bed—it would be nice to get along at the very least. 

“You’ve cleaned up well, little creature... it’s time.” Cersei whispered over Rowan’s shoulder, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Your hound is waiting.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

Sandor had always liked Tyrion the most out of Tywin’s three heirs, which wasn’t saying much... but still. However, he had never imagined standing next to Tyrion in the great hall at the end of an aisle. He had also never thought that he would be married at all, much less under these circumstances. While he felt guilty that Rowan would be—in his mind—wasted on him, it was also like a dream.

He had watched her serve Joffrey every day for over five years and, whether or not she knew it, it was always the best part of his day. She was gentle, patient, and captivating; not once did she look at him with disgust or fear. Knowing that Joffrey had intended this union as punishment stung more than he cared to admit, but he hoped desperately that he could make her feel safe... and maybe even happy. 

Sandor had polished his armor and bathed that morning, combing his hair for the first time in weeks. He wanted to be as presentable as possible for the ceremony so that he could try not to embarrass Rowan, as Joffrey had expertly made him believe he would. 

“I truly do hope this is a pleasant marriage for you, Clegane,” Tyrion murmured quietly, so as not to be overheard. “I know that my insolent nephew’s reign of terror has invaded your life once again and for that I am sorry... but I have met your bride before and think she is actually quite remarkable. I found her to be kind and remarkably intelligent. She likes to read”—he was cut off by the double-doors swinging wide at the hall’s entrance. 

The King emerged with the Queen Mother on his arm, followed by Joffrey’s fiancée—a young, scheming Tyrell girl who was much like him, but far less evil. And then he saw her, and his breath hitched, as did that of most others in the room. 

Rowan stepped into the hall on the arm of Jaime Lannister, and proceeded down the aisle. Sandor felt a blush creep to his cheeks, and tried to resume a normal breathing pattern so she wouldn’t think that he was insane. She smiled softly when her eyes met his, and her lips parted slightly, surprised by how dashing he looked at the altar. 

The wedding ensued, officiated by the High Septon. “As instructed by the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

In unison, Sandor and Rowan recited: “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” 

Then, after taking a deep, uncertain breath, Sandor whispered “I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.” Rowan felt a lump form in her throat, the emotion catching her off-guard and making her voice wobble. “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

The Septon gave his final command: “Seal the union with a kiss before the court and the gods.”

Their eyes met sheepishly, and both gave a small smile. 

“May... may I kiss you?” Sandor asked nervously.

Rowan gave small nod, then gently placed a hand on his scarred face, causing him to flinch a little. Then, after a moment, he returned the favor and cradled her face in his hands, kissing her softly. 

“Enough!” Joffrey shouted; the shrill annoyance in his voice echoed throughout the hall. “I won’t rest until I know that you’ve bedded the whore... ruin her, mutt... that’s your job.” Joffrey spat the insults at Sandor’s back, and Rowan felt his hands tense as his body responded to the king. 

Instead of turning to address Joffrey, Sandor kept his eyes on Rowan, pulling her closer so that she couldn’t peek around him at the conniving ruler. 

“Should we celebrate with dinner?” He asked with a hint of irritation at the child king’s vulgarity. “Do you like chicken?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own the rights to the GOT wedding vows included herein.


	3. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Rowan share a post-ceremony dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting a little ~spicy~...

Sitting across from her new husband, Rowan felt surprisingly calm. Maybe it was the veritable feast that Tyrion had arranged—and had delivered to the extravagant suite he had also negotiated—the absurd amount of wine, or the the look of contentment on Sandor’s face, but whatever it was... she was grateful. 

“I’m happy to know that we both like chicken,” she chuckled, glancing at him through her eyelashes and fiddling with her fingers in her lap. 

“Aye... I’m not a picky eater, but chicken is my favorite.” He smiled, and gestured at the bones that had been picked clean. 

Rowan leaned forward in her seat, taking in his face from across the table. “Can I ask you a question, Sandor?” 

“Anything. You are my wife, after all.” 

That caused Rowan to blush as she chewed lightly on her bottom lip. “What are some of your other favorite things?” She posed the question quietly, cautiously... as if he might be offended that she was prying. 

“Hmm... favorite things...” Sandor hummed, crinkling his brow in thought. A rough hand went to stroke his thick beard as he gazed at the ceiling in thought. “A newly sharpened sword... the wind in the trees... listening to bards who tell stories. Not the ones who sing,” he explained seriously. 

“What kinds of stories?” Rowan’s eyes glistened in the light of the roaring fireplace, taking in the sight of her husband in its warm glow. She watched him eagerly as the corner of his lips turned up on the left side of his face... she liked his smirks. 

“Usually those of war and victory... but sometimes...” He trailed off, ducking his head to chuckle.

“Sometimes?” Rowan chided, tilting her head to see his face hidden behind the curtain of brown, wavy hair. 

“Sometimes I like the stories about magic, farmers who break stubborn stallions, and star-crossed lovers...” His dark eyes flitted up to meet hers, taking in her kind face. She was so beautiful in golden light of the hearth—he didn’t even mind that it was fire that made this vision possible. 

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, and gazing at one another across the expanse of food, he spoke again. “And you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Your favorite things.” 

Rowan giggled softly at Sandor’s prompting, and leaned back in her chair. After spending a few minutes lost in thought, she nodded to herself that she had come up with true answers, bringing her back into the moment. “Rain on the roof... dancing... singing, but not like a bard—” she winked at him. “Sleeping on cold sheets... good books...”

“What do you read?” His eyes reflected genuine curiosity and it made something flutter in the pit of Rowan’s stomach. 

“Everything... but I like romance and poetry the most.” 

After a minute or so had passed, Sandor rose from his place at the table. Slowly, like a cat treading on the ledge of a tall tower, he made his way around the head of the table and back up to where Rowan was seated. He gingerly removed the leather vest that he wore over his flowing linen shirt that added some cushion between his body and his armor. Placing it over the back of one of the chairs, he proceeded to sit down next to her. He rolled up the sleeves of the white blouse and turned to face her once more. 

“Tell me about the poetry you like.” He reached for one of her fiddling hands and enclosed it in both of his, turning it over to inspect her palm. Rowan felt a shiver run up her arm as he traced a finger over the lines in her hand. 

“I... I like to read Emmeric Brunaulf’s letters to his long lost love.” She whispered through shuddering breaths, unnerved by Sandor’s sudden closeness and impressive gentleness.

“And what does he say... to his long lost love?” Sandor murmured as he pressed her knuckles to his lips, kissing them softly. She melted, and was sure that he sense it. 

“For every night that you are gone, I count another star. I cannot sleep without you near; I cannot rest until I see your face again. You carry my heart with you, and I am slain by its absence.”

“Well, damn, woman,” he chuckled, “that’s rather sad for our wedding night, isn’t it?” His laughter escalated until he was laughing fully, and so was Rowan. She ducked her head in embarrassment and it made contact with his chest. She heard his breath hitch at her touch and he collected her other hand in his. 

“Rowan... I can’t help but feel like I gained so much through this punishment, yet I would hate to think that you feel... trapped... with me.” His words in her ear sent a pang of grief and heartache to her chest, and she lifted her head to look at him. With her nose touching his and her brow furrowed to match, she pleaded: “Sandor, don’t ever say such things... I know that Joffrey thought this would be something from which he would get some bizarre, wicked enjoyment... but I am honored to be your wife. War stories and all.” 

His lips crashed into hers and her arms snaked around his neck. Sandor grasped at Rowan’s waist, clutching fistfuls of satin fabric and pulling her into his lap. She moaned softly into his mouth, earning a groan from him in return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for your kudos and comments— thank you all so much! <3 xx cheers


	4. A Pleasure and a Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding night continued. ;-)

Effortlessly, Sandor picked Rowan up and carried her over to the ornate chaise lounge by the king-sized bed. With her legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck, she was clinging to him tightly—but she wanted desperately to be closer. He finally broke the kiss as he set her down, and then kneeled next the chaise. 

With his hands on her knees and noses touching, both breathed heavily and with great anticipation; they needed each other. But he could sense her slight hesitation having never lain with a man. He assumed she had been giving Cersei’s infamous pre-marital advice that he had heard her give to dozens of young ladies in waiting that passed through the court. And, due to the context of the situation, he suspected that the chat was even more unkind than usual—if that were possible. 

“Lass, I have to ask you one more question,” his voice rumbled in his chest as she trailed her fingers across the collar of his shirt. “Did Cersei tell you what to expect of this night?” 

“She did,” she whispered so softly that he almost couldn’t hear her. “She said that it would hurt at first, and to let my husband have his way.” 

Sandor grimaced at this; having been to a few brothels himself, he was rather experienced. But he knew what Cersei was suggesting and vehemently disagreed. “Aye, I suspect she was right about the first part—it will probably hurt a little, but I will do my best to be gentle. I never want to hurt you.” 

At this, Rowan pressed her forehead to his and let her hands wander down his chest. 

“But I can’t say much for the second part,” he continued, “because we should both get to have our ways—Cersei didn’t explain that making love isn’t just fucking.” 

Rowan blushed at the sudden vulgarity that he had managed to subdue for most of the day, and smiled widely at his words. “Making love it is, then,” she purred... “Show me how.” 

That was the permission that Sandor needed take charge, so he quickly got to work removing Rowan’s wedding chains from her neck and wrists. With every brush of his fingers on her skin, she felt a heat growing in the pit of her stomach. He placed a kiss where each chain had been while she deftly untied the laces at the back of her gown. Once all of the jewelry had been removed and the dress loosened, Sandor pulled it over her head and laid it on the chest at the foot of the bed. 

She reached for the bottom of his shirt, but he gently brushed her hands away. “Not yet, Lady Clegane,” he teased. She chuckled at the title, and let out a small whine in frustration. “I have something else in mind first,” Sandor murmured as he kneeled once more. Looking up at her through his thick brows, he slowly unlaced her corset—which tied in the front—and pulled it off. All that was left was the thin sheath underdress, a wafer-thin barrier between her skin and his. She could feel the burning desperation for his skin on hers growing as he removed each layer—it was practically unbearable. “Let me see you,” he said softly. 

As instructed, Rowan stood, and gingerly pulled the sheath up over her head. Sandor’s hands found her hips and slowly guided her to sit back down in front of him. His hands slid down her thighs and found their places on her knees once more. “You’re so perfect,” he mumbled; she could see his chest heaving and realized that he was using every ounce of self-control he had.

Slowly, he pushed her legs apart; Rowan’s lips parted as she put together what he was likely about to do. “You don’t have to, Sandor—” she trailed off as his eyes met hers once more. 

“I know, but I want to. I want you to enjoy this... my wife deserves pleasure.” And with that, before she could say another word, he was planting kisses up her thigh. Once he got to her clit, he kissed it softly, then rolled his tongue around it. Rowan let out a moan and allowed her fingers to find their way into his hair—pulling him in. He continued to suck on her clit with growing intensity as one of his hands found its way up to her breast. Pinching her nipple and squeezing the soft flesh around it, his touch eliciting another series of moans from his wife, he moved his other hand to her opening.   
“I’ll be gentle, love,” he reassured her as he entered her with one finger, moving slowly in and out in time with his swirling tongue and squeezing hand. 

“Sandor,” she gasped as he added a second finger. Rowan winced slightly at the initial pain of the added width, which was quickly overwhelmed by the pleasure of the methodical motion. Before long, she could feel the heat inside her growing, and her hips started to grind uncontrollably. “When you can’t take it anymore,” he mumbled into her pussy, “let go.” And she did. Waves of pleasure racked her body, and sounds escaped her throat that she didn’t even know she could make. He slowly pulled his fingers out and then wiped them on his shirt as he removed it. 

“I didn’t know that women could do that, too,” Rowan remarked in disbelief through a series of ragged breaths. Sandor chuckled, undoing his belt: “Aye, that’s what’s wrong with Cersei’s teachings... sex isn’t just about the man. If it were, he wouldn’t need a woman, now would he?” As he pulled his boots off—and finally, his pants—his cock sprung free. Rowan looked at him wide-eyed, biting her bottom lip.

Wordlessly, Sandor took her hands and placed them on his rock-hard member, gasping at the touch even though he had instigated it. “Fuck,” he breathed, as Rowan slowly moved her hands up and down his shaft. Nervously, she questioned: “Am I hurting you?” He quickly shook his head ‘no,’ followed by a sharp inhale and a bite to his lip. “No, it’s so good— don’t stop,” Sandor growled. Both naked and fueled by insatiable lust, the air of anticipation filled the room. 

Suddenly, without warning, Sandor reached down for Rowan’s waist; he picked her up—gently—and placed her on the bed. With her hair splayed behind her and hands above her head, she looked ethereal and wild all at once. He could hardly stand it. Running his course hands up and down her smooth torso caused her to squirm, and she tilted her head back in desperation. Sandor gently pushed her legs apart once more, but this time, he positioned himself in front of her waiting entrance. 

“Please,” she begged, chewing on her bottom lip, “show me what it’s like to have you inside of me.” 

“I promise I’ll be gentle, love, but it will probably still hurt a little.”

He entered her slowly and a groan rolled off of his lips; his already furrowed brow creased even further. “So fucking tight.” 

Rowan let out a slow exhale and adjusted her hips for a moment. With her husband hovering over her—hands on either side of her head— and his face only inches from hers, she reveled in the strange mix of pain and pleasure. Finally, after she gave him a small nod, Sandor started to pump in and out of her pussy with increasing speed and intensity. A few whimpers were mixed in with heavy breaths and moans, but both were nearly speechless at the intimacy and bliss of the moment. 

When she felt that now familiar feeling rising in her, she whispered into Sandor’s neck, “I’m so close, Sandor,” and he grunted back in agreement. Slamming into her furiously, he moaned as he released inside of her, feeling her cunt pulse around his throbbing cock. After riding out the rest of her orgasm, he slowly pulled out of her, planting soft kissing on her neck and working his way up to her lips. 

“You’re mine,” he purred. 

“Yours,” she breathed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so pleased by your kind words and kudos; thank you so much. Cheers. Xx


	5. Linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conclusion for our beloved Sandor and Rowan.

  
Sandor rolled off of Rowan to lay down next to her on the extravagant bedding, a luxury that neither had ever experienced prior to that night. He watched her try to catch her breath with her eyes closed, chest rising and falling, a light flush of heat in her cheeks. He had always noticed the way that she was on edge while serving Joffrey, but in this moment, she looked peaceful—and he was content. 

Tucking one arm under her head and wrapping his other around her waist, Sandor pulled her into his warm frame. Rowan let out a happy sigh and nestled back into him, entwining her legs with his. She had never felt as safe as she did in his arms, and felt a tingle rising in her throat every time she realized that they would get to spend the rest of their lives together. 

“Sandor,” she began—after their heartrates had settled—“I’m so grateful that this worked out like it did... I’m not sure how Joffrey is going to like it when he finds out that we get along so well,” she giggled. “I hope that I’ll make you happy... because I want you to be happy, Sandor.” She felt his grip tighten around her ever so slightly, and could feel him swallow a lump in his throat. After a few moments of comfortable silence—something they both cherished about their new relationship—he spoke. 

“I never thought I could be a happy man. I had a terrible childhood, as you know, and things didn’t get much better after that. When I started working for the Lannisters, I decided that I would stay here until I got killed in battle or until they decided I was done. I had nothing to lose. I’ve seen a lot of terrible things and not a lot of good. Then there was you.” Rowan shimmied around to face him as her heart started to flutter in her chest once more. Her hands rested on his chest, and she ran her fingers over the scars under the thick hair on his muscular build. 

“I watched you survive the coward little rat they call a king...”

“Fuck the king,” Rowan snickered. 

“Fuck the king, indeed,” Sandor chortled, delighted at his bride’s shared humour. “You did it with more grace than I think most people could muster. And now that I’ve gotten to know more about who you are, I am the one that should be hoping for your happiness—you’ve already brought me mine. And now I get to hold you, lass. How’d it go...’until the end of my days?’” He teased, and she nuzzled into his neck, nodding at the sweet references to their vows. 

“Do you believe in the gods, Sandor?”

“I believe in The Mother... and The Maiden... and the Crone,” he whispered. “I see all of them in you.”

“Just the goddesses then?” 

“Aye. Men destroy. Women create, nurture, and love.” Sandor’s serious face was softened by the warm glow in the room; it was enough to make Rowan melt in his arms. 

“Men don’t love then?” She cocked an eyebrow at him, then ducked her head at the the unusually bold statement. The hand that was around her waist glided up her exposed back and gripped lightly at the back of her neck; a strong thumb tilted her head back up, and she locked eyes with him once again. 

“Men love because they are loved. They’re completed by the gifts of women. The Stranger needs The Crone, just like I now need you.”

“You’re stuck with me, Ser Clegane,” Rowan purred, pressing her forehead to his, and closing her eyes in bliss.

“I could say the same to you, Lady Clegane,” Sandor rumbled, planting a light kiss on her nose. 

The two fell asleep quickly and soundly, wrapped in one another’s arms. 

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:• 

Rowan awoke to a snoring Sandor and realized that they had both slept longer than intended. She let out a small shriek when she made direct eye contact with someone standing on the other side of the bed. “Lord Tyrion!” 

Sandor’s grip on Rowan tightened instinctively, reacting to her shock; he shot up in bed, taking her with him, and whipped his head around to face his friend. 

“What in Seven Hell’s...” he began, before Tyrion scurried over towards the door. 

“I apologize for startling you, dear friends, but I came to warn you—Joffrey intends to pay a visit shortly... and while I’m delighted to find that you’ve discovered unanticipated marital bliss, I suspect that you’ll want to give him a... different impression.” 

He quietly slipped out the door and a groan escaped Sandor’s lips. “I won’t let him hurt you, lass... not on my account or anyone else’s. But I fear I’ll have to play his game to appease him—at least until he finds something else to entertain him.”

“That’s okay, my love,” Rowan reassured him. “I know the real you, now... you couldn’t fool me if you tried. Joffrey, on the other hand... isn’t smart enough to see through our ruses.” 

Sandor breathed her in one more time before loosening his grip; Rowan lingered for just a moment, taking him in, then started to get dressed. 

“You know, it’s a shame that you’ve got to put those clothes back on,” he grinned—“all that work just for me to rip them back off of you tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this fic! Your kind comments and kudos mean a great deal to me—I never thought anyone would want to read my writing (especially smut? LOL), so it’s truly a joy to write for you! This was a request from a reader—thank you, Yolandi—so make sure to request your own. :-) Just head to my profile where you’ll find contact info in my description. 
> 
> Until then, be safe & stay well— be kind to your neighbours & yourself. Xx cheers.


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